Shelter Pending
by RageLikeRipred
Summary: Clove is little, and a killer, and she doesn't think she can ever untwist herself. She doesn't need to. The way that he is just makes her really want to live, but she doesn't care for it. Not at all.
1. Imminent

A/N: Hey, everyone. So, I do believe that this is my first attempt at a Hunger Games fic, so I hope you enjoy it. I read the Hunger Games for the first time several years ago, just a few months after it came out. It was fabulous, and I always adored the odd relationship shared between Cato and Clove.

I realize that much of the Cato/Clove fanfiction that exists is extremely dark and twisted. This makes sense, but I don't personally believe that Cato and Clove were as completely insane as many people believed them to be. So, I will warn you that in this fic, their relationship is, yes, quite twisted. But the story is more on the focus of them trying to untwist themselves, return to normality as opposed to accepting the insanity brought to them by the Games. This probably doesn't make much sense, but I would realy love it if you stuck with the story to find out what I mean by the end. Thank you!

Disclaimer: I promise you, I do not own The Hunger Games.

Also, by the way, I'm loving that Cato/Clove is like all the rage now that the Hunger Games movie has completely screwed them up.

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><p>I have always wanted to die. But I never could.<p>

I am ruthless. I am small. I am hateful. I am white like diseased foliage that refuses to crumple away. The world spins in my eyes, but I am plenty strong enough to keep it still.

I've always wanted to die, but to set myself up for death would be a lie that I could never stomach. When my time comes, I want it to be for real. Because in that way, death is beautiful. So present, so commanding. I have to salute the one thing that is never beaten at its own game.

Therefore, I've always wanted to compete in the Hunger Games. Everyone in District 2 does, but not in the way I do. They want glory, fame, money. They wish for the life after.

The ground surrenders to my feet as I cross it, staring ahead with blank black eyes. My ebony hair is all piled on the top of my head the way I like it. I wear a white dress that falls straight to my knees. It's simple and I don't really care about it.

I finally take my place in the crowd. Everyone is rowdy, whooping and cheering. I stand with the sixteens and look back at my mother and father. Both sets of eyes are locked on me, and they only nod slowly. Reassuring? I don't know for what. I suppose they just want me to come home.

I don't bother talking to anyone. I only wait for the chaos in anticipation of the Reaping to die down. Suddenly, the District 2 escort, Aoife, is on the stage.

"Welcome, District 2, to your Reaping for the 74th annual Hunger Games!" she shouts enthusiastically. Her skin is pure white, and so is her hair, which falls stick straight to her hips. Her eyelashes are obviously enhanced, as they extend inches beyond physically possible lengths. They turn from black at their roots to bright orange, which contrasts weirdly with her emerald green eyes. She wears a purple outfit that puffs up in incredibly strange places. She moves her arms animatedly, but her wrists are always bent forward, and they absolutely never straighten out. It gives her the distinct appearance of a bird. I wonder if that's just her manner or if it's something surgically engineered on purpose.

After a clip from the Capitol plays on the large screens surrounding us, Aoife speaks. "I will now select your female tribute for this year!" Everyone is on edge as her broken wrist plucks out a folded strip of paper form the giant reaping ball. She opens it with some difficulty. And then, with a breath, she calls, "Clove Carliff!"

It's me, that's really what it is. A ghost of a smile passes over my face as I rise to take my place on the stage next to Aoife. "Any volunteers?" No one raises their voice, but I can see them burning with jealousy. "Congratulations, Clove. I can tell that you are going to represent District 2 honorably." Sure. "And on to the gentlemen!"

She chooses a piece of paper from the boys' reaping ball, using both of her bent wrists this time. I scan the crowd of boys all lined up and waiting. I know quite a good number of them, but a lot of them I don't recognize. This is undoubtedly due to the set up of District 2. It's organized into little separate villages centered around mines. No one has much reason to interact with people on different sides of the district from them.

"Cato Roman!" Aoife shouts. This is a name I don't happen to recall. I don't mind. That makes it easier to plunge my knife into his stomach when the time comes. Not that I would have had any qualms with that even if I had known him.

I'm not paying attention anymore, but I faintly register a tall, blond young man with a smirk (I can only call him a man as he appears to be eighteen and has a mature, large, strong build) emerging from the mass of people. He confidently takes his place onstage with me. Aoife asks for volunteers. A few boys start to step forward or raise their hands, but are quickly stopped by others surrounding them. This is peculiar to me, because usually volunteering, especially for the male tribute spot, is a long and complicated process in this district. You almost never see a lack of male volunteers.

And then we turn to shake hands as per protocol. This is the first time I actually get a good look at him, and I am immediately overtaken with extreme fear. His rough hand swallows mine as he gives it a firm shake, his blue eyes boring straight into me. But I do not fear him because he is big, or clearly dangerous. It is because I am painfully hit, for the first time ever, with a strong, desperate desire to live.

He releases me and I turn away from him as quickly as is possible. I wonder if he notices my unsettlement.

We are ushered into separate rooms within the Justice Building for our goodbyes. My parents come in first. "You have to win, okay Clove?" my mother says. "You need to come home."

I nod. "I will." I know without a doubt that I possess the skill and ability required to win. And I will fight as hard as I can to win. But when death comes, as I'm sure it will, I will finally go. No protestation as soon as it is certain. My mind briefly flashes back to being on the stage with Cato, and I remember my doubt in this. But I suppress the thought.

My father tells me, "You can do it. All of your training, all those years have been for this." He is right. I have been training for the Games since the age of seven, just as all the children do. Then, a few more words are exchanged, and they are gone. I know they believe that I will be back for them.

Next, a girl from school enters the room. I don't know if I consider Lennox a friend. In District 2, nobody likes to admit that they care about anyone else. This makes it difficult to have friends at all.

Lennox sits down across from me. "I came," she starts with a breath, "to warn you." My eyes narrow. What does she think I need? "I know you don't want that, but I also know that you don't know Cato."

I lean forward, rest my arms on my knees. "So, who is he?"

"He's from East Two," Lennox informs me. District 2 is split up into five sections: North Two, East Two, South Two, West Two, and the Center, where all the Capitol buildings (Justice Building, Communication centers, etc.) are. The Reaping is always held in the Center. I'm from North Two. Lennox continues, "He's the best of the best in training over there. A killing machine."

I wonder somewhat why I've never heard of him if he's so feared, but I realize that it makes a little bit of sense because training for the Games in District 2 is separated into two different communities—West Two and North Two are together, and East Two and South Two are together. I know about anyone who's good enough to be a potential victor within my training community, but the other one? Don't know much about them.

"Alright," I say. "What was the deal with no one trying to take his spot? I saw a few people almost volunteer, but they were stopped by others."

"Noticed that, did you?" Lennox asks, and I nod. "It's because they know that anyone who tried to take his spot would definitely get beaten to an irreparable pulp, whether it was before he left for the Games, or after he returns as victor."

This stings a little. "So you're saying I have no chance?" I don't believe it, but I don't like to think that other people do.

"No, I'm not saying that," Lennox shrugs. "Just be careful around him. He'll beat anyone for anything." With that, she leaves. I have no other visitors.

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><p>AN: How was it? Please let me know if you spot any typos or grammar mistakes! I know that chapter may have been a bit slow for some people, but it's just the introduction, which is always hard for me to write. So, please **REVIEW** and let me know how I've done. Thank you!


	2. Choice Weapon

A/N: Hey, you guys! Thanks for reading and reviewing the first chapter of Shelter Pending, I really appreciate it. Here's the second chapter for you. Let me know if you spot any grammatical errors or mistakes, things like that.

So, I wanted to say that the events that occur in this fic will be a mix of what happened in the book, the movie, and my own imagination. Things will be altered, yes. However, no, Cato and Clove will not be victors. But wait! I ask you not to let that influence your judgement about whether or not you want to continue reading my work. So with that, please read on!

Disclaimer: I love Cato and Clove too much to have killed them off in the original _Hunger Games_, so you know I don't own it.

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><p>I'm on the train now, headed for the Capitol. It's incredibly different. While the people of District 2 may have an easier time winning the Games, our living conditions are basically the same as the other districts, just slightly improved in terms of food. We freeze, though. And we certainly grovel around in our own filth. Occasional starvation. So on.<p>

When I see the interior of the train, I admittedly gasp a little bit. It's decorative and elaborate in every possible way. The wood is finished and glossy, and I can't help but think of the misshapen wooden fence that surrounds the local apothecary; it's rough and you're bound to get a splinter if you so much as graze it. It's happened to me many times. I always pick the splinter out quickly, then stare at my hand for a bit, wondering if any blood will appear.

The floor of the train is carpeted and I can tell that it's soft. I have to resist the urge to reach down and feel it with my hands. I'm sure the contrast would be great. When I'm done staring at the red designs on the floor of the train car, I look up to see a Capitol attendant, who guides me to my bedroom. He closes the door on his way out.

Then I'm alone, and I gingerly sit down on the edge of the giant bed. I know that everyone will probably be called together for a meal soon. I want to be alone until then. Being raised in District 2 has made up my social skills to be lacking. All I know how to do in front of people is pretend, having seen successful Hunger Games interviews on television, even been trained in them a small amount. But I don't feel like pretending for anyone, entertaining them right now. So I sit on my bed.

After a few minutes, I scoot back until the undersides of my knees hit bedspread. I place my hands behind me and lean slightly onto my arms. It's then that I realize I'm still dressed in my Reaping outfit. I get up to change, choosing a plain burgundy tee-shirt and tight black pants. It's the most normal outfit I can find in the dresser. I leave my hair up, though. When I'm done changing, I look back at the bed, but I decide to just sit on the floor.

I'm in the middle of the room now, and I pull my knees in tight to my chest and stare at the ceiling. For the second time, I remember the feeling I got when I shook hands with the Cato boy. This time, because I'm alone, I allow myself to dwell on it. But I try not to form any thoughts; I just recall what I saw, what I felt. His eyes sharp like a killer's. His jaw the same. Why did someone so lethal make me want to live? I think-…no, there will be no thoughts. Just the feel of my feet cemented into the stage.

Soon, Aoife is calling me to dinner. I emerge from my room and follow her to the dinner table. The Capitol woman tries to talk to me, but I don't bother to listen; she's quite condescending, and blissfully unaware of how ridiculous she is. I take my seat, and notice that Cato is already seated across from me.

And then our mentors enter, a woman named Ire and a man named Creon. They are both in their mid-twenties, being the two victors from District 2 who most recently won the Hunger Games. They examine the seating arrangement so far: Aoife at the head of the table, Cato and I across from each other.

"Why," Ire begins to speak, "don't our tributes sit themselves next to each other so we can see them?" Her voice is low and clear. Her copper-brown hair just brushes her shoulders and ends choppily, sort of framing her face with the muddled green eyes. I recognize her as the winner of the 68th Games, the year when the Arena was a swamp. I remember the saw-grass in there, the stuff that grew up to seven feet tall, with serrated edges and sticky surfaces. Ire was the only one smart enough to fashion the saw-grass into a weapon. Some people in District 2 have misgivings about her, though. They were disappointed that she didn't win like a normal Career, utilizing only brute strength. Despite that, I've always respected her.

"Yeah," Creon gruffly agrees. He speaks in a rumble lower than Ire's. His brown hair is as average as his facial features. He would be plain and unnoticeable if it weren't for two things: his size and his eye color. He easily looms at six feet and six inches, but he's not just tall. He's big and muscular as well, shoulders spanning at least two and a half feet, probably more. His eyes, though, are almost alien. Almost every eye color possible exists somewhat inside of them. His right eye is the simpler of the two, a summery green with splotches of honey brown. His left though, is predominantly forest green, with a pool of dark blue floating along the bottom. Encircling his black pupil is a ring of gold. I don't remember much of his victory, as it was a few years before Ire's. I hadn't even begun training at that point.

I stand up and move to sit next to Cato. Ire and Creon sit across from us. "Hey," Creon suddenly barks. "Aren't you that kid from East Two who tried to lodge a sword through my ribs?"

I look at Cato, because our male mentor certainly isn't talking about me. "Yeah," Cato admits readily. "Didn't think you'd remember it."

Aoife is astounded. "I…what?" Her bewilderment can only be amusing when so affected by her accent.

Cato takes a bite out of a huge steak that the Capitol servers have just put in front of us. "My first year in training."

"You thought you were a real hot-shot already. Thought you could take me down in two seconds flat." Creon turns to me. "Kid couldn't do it. Left a respectable cut on the hand that caught his sword, though. I'd watch out for that one, if I were you."

I send Cato a quizzical glance, and I don't think he notices. He speaks as if he were answering the question in my stare, anyway. "Creon used to help out at the East and South Two training center."

"Yeah, for my first couple years after winning. Then I decided just to stay put in the Center. Easier for everyone that way." Creon doesn't seem like the type of man to care about how easy things are for other people. I wonder what he means, but then decide that I don't really care.

Cato and I don't talk for the rest of the meal. Aoife makes small talk with Ire and Creon, who participate grudgingly. Our escort doesn't pay attention to Cato or me in the slightest. I think she thinks that she's above us, being from the Capitol and all. Maybe victors are more on her level.

When she's finished eating, Aoife retires to her bedchambers. Ire and Creon tell us to stay, though. "Stand," Ire lightly commands. She seems to have a way of being authoritative without pushiness or arrogance. Cato and I stand abreast to one another while Ire circles us. Creon doesn't move, but his odd eyes clearly evaluate us. Cato clenches his hands behind his back like he's frustrated, but he still wears a smirk.

Ire stops in front of me. "How tall are you?" she inquires.

"Five foot four," I state, almost with pride. In the way of Careers, I'm short, and everyone knows it. I manage to remain deadly.

Ire doesn't betray a visible response. She stands at somewhere around five foot ten. "Where are you from?"

"North Two," I say shortly. What does that have to do with anything?

"So, you're from the same area where they train the Peacekeepers." Oh. I suppose that could mean something.

"It's different though," I tell her. "The training."

"I know," she says patiently. Of course she would. I reprimand myself for being ignorant. I can't afford that kind of thing when I go into the Arena.

"You guys got a choice weapon?" Creon asks us.

I respond, "I like to throw knives." Creon seems unimpressed, so I decide to demonstrate. A leftover steak knife from our meal will have to suffice. I pick the nearest one off of the table and send it whizzing by his face. It lodges itself in the center of a Capitol painting behind him. Creon doesn't flinch, but after it's been stuck for a few seconds, he turns his head and looks at the knife, dislodges it, and then looks back at me.

"Why do you guys want to kill me so bad?" He's smiling faintly.

"I use a sword," Cato declares.

Creon grunts. "Still running around with that sword then, eh?"

Cato doesn't reply to this. He only scoffs quietly. Ire directs us to show off our combat skills in the Training Center. Intimidate other tributes. "Don't focus too much on knives and swords, though. Show everyone that you're dangerous all around. Then in the Private Sessions? That's when you don't touch anything but a knife or a sword."

With a few more words, Ire and Creon leave. Cato and I walk to our rooms in the same direction. We fall into step beside each other, making our way through several train cars. He doesn't say anything, though, and I don't for awhile either.

Then, I'm not sure what motivates me to speak. I just need to hear him, see if I experience the same thing as I did at the Reaping. "Creon seems to like you," I say. It's stupid, but also the only thing I could come up with.

"Is that supposed to be sarcastic?" he asks in a bored tone.

"No," I reply. "I think he likes your guts."

"Well, thanks for your help." I know what he's doing. He doesn't want to talk to me because I'm going to die, so it's not like we could be friends or anything. I am going to die. He is not. Which is actually troubling, because again, he looks me in the eye. And I feel like I don't want to go anywhere.

"I don't think you understand what I'm saying here." We're standing still in the hall of the train car that contains both of our bedrooms. He keeps his eyes trained on mine, but they express no emotion. I smirk. "He likes me too, Creon. Maybe a little more than you." And with that, I turn and disappear into my room, Cato's eyes still following me.

As soon as the door shuts behind me, I regret my rapid exit. The weight of wanting to drown has returned again. And I still enjoy it.

But…I enjoy the will to live too, even if I've only felt it twice.

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><p>AN: So what did you think? Let me know with a **REVIEW**! Thanks so much for reading, and I hope to hear from you.


	3. Straight Lines

A/N: Hey guys! Here's the next chapter. I hope you guys like it! As you will see, I decided to make Clove's hair down instead of up (like it is in the movie) for the Tribute Parade. So, as usual, tell me if I made any mistakes that can be fixed, it's all greatly appreciated.

Disclaimer: Oh, like you don't already know.

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><p>The water prickles my skin in an unfamiliar way. I don't like it much, because it feels almost as if I am under attack and will be engulfed. The droplets are thousands of tiny knives that have been thrown back at me like boomerangs, causing pain just enough not to kill.<p>

But they're not. It's just water from the showerheads in the Remake Center. I haven't been out in the rain much, and I've certainly never taken a real shower, so I don't know this.

My prep team continues to hose me down a bit, but it soon ceases. I feel the excess water running away from me, off the sides of my back and onto the table I'm laid out on. Apparently, it doesn't like me either.

"Up, up!" one of them chirps. I slide myself off of the table and go to stand naked before a mirror. I examine my reflection without much interest. No one in District 2 really cares what they look like. That is, as long as they look lethal.

My body is waxed, my skin is clear, my teeth are white. A woman on my prep team looks very excited as she comes behind me and lays a hand on my shoulder. I have to exercise control to refrain from tossing her off. "You're ready!" she exclaims, smiling widely. In a giant flurry, my prep team is gone, and I am alone again.

In comes my stylist. He has short cropped hair which is a dark red color. A black tattoo reaches across the left side of his face in straight lines, with thin semicircles intersecting them. His eyes glow lavender, clearly enhanced.

"I am Pascha," he tells me. Pascha is tall, but lanky. "Congratulations on your participation in the Hunger Games. My partner and I have excellent costumes prepared for you and Cato. Tonight's Tribute Parade is sure to leave all eyes on you." His voice is a bit soft, but always level. Not bouncing around like most of the Capitol people, like Aoife.

After examining me, Pascha puts me in a thin robe. Then he gets right to work on my face. There are powders and gels and pencils and creams everywhere, and all the while I don't know what he's making me into.

"What will the costumes be like?" I inquire warily.

"Trust me," he responds, "they will be…heavenly." I assume he doesn't want to give away too much, but his reply frustrates me. Heavenly? I don't want to go out there looking like some stupid angel. Perhaps he has misjudged me due to my size? I tell myself to forget it. None of this will matter in a few days anyway, when I eventually face my death. Probably I will be murdered by another Career, because we'll be the only ones left by that point.

Pascha sees the disdain in my eyes. He laughs quietly and then corrects himself. "I mean to say, it will be godly."

Godly. Powerful. I can work with that.

Soon, I get a glimpse in a mirror. I see a glorified version of myself. There are thin black lines surrounding my eyes. The freckles that spread across my nose and cheeks have vanished. They are replaced instead with a shimmery golden powder that stands out against my pale skin. My eyelashes are much longer and blacker. Are those even real? My lips have been left alone, but when I rub them together they feel soft.

I turn back to Pascha. "I look nice," I say.

He bites his lower lip and says to me, "Look, I know that it's not your…style." No, it's not. Mostly because I don't have a style other than wearing my hair on top of my head. Now, it hangs loosely down. "But the sponsors will love it. I promise." I believe him. He seems to be efficient.

"I know," I answer. "But I won't look weak…right?"

Pascha assures me, "By no means, Clove. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Good," I exhale.

"There's a problem, though," Pascha murmurs. His lavender eyes flit to my hair, falling over my shoulders.

I grasp a section of the dark strands. "Do you want it up?" I ask hopefully.

"No, that won't work." It was worth a try. "It just can't shine like that." I look down at the hair in my hand. My prep team has made it glossy and soft and silky and lustrous. Pascha crosses to a table and plucks a spray bottle from a mass of products. He comes back. "Close your eyes."

He spritzes the hair product over my head, and then just stands there. I open my eyes. "Does it look different?" I ask him.

"It needs to set," he replies.

"Oh," I nod lamely. We wait for a few more seconds, in which I notice that the dirt beneath my fingernails has disappeared.

"Perfect," Pascha smiles. "It's matte now. More like it normally is."

"You mean tangled?" I question skeptically.

"No, it just has texture now." I decide he means that it has knots again now. But I reach up to touch it, and there aren't really knots. It just feels rough.

Then it's time to get dressed. I finally get my first look at my costume for the Tribute Parade. Pascha is right, it is godly. There's a gold helmet with wings. Everything is golden. I have an outfit that resembles romanticized armor: a breastplate with metal crafted to look like feathers, a golden skirt and sandals. I will look like a god.

"Thank you," I whisper to Pascha. He's right. It's fabulous.

I get dressed. Pascha runs a final check to make sure everything is in place. Then, we go to meet Aoife, Ire, Creon, Cato, and his stylist where we will emerge for the Parade. They're all there by the chariot.

I face Cato, and he smirks at me. "Pretty costume," are his first words to me since that night on the train. The comment is teasing, but I can use it against him.

"Same to you," I counter, "seeing as you're wearing the exact same thing." I raise an eyebrow and expect his smirk to drop off his face, but it doesn't. He just chuckles with a low voice.

We get into the chariot and I examine the other tributes. There's District 10, looking pathetic in cowboy getups. District 5 is just plain frightening. Almost everyone looks ridiculous, except for us, District 4, and even District 7, who look okay. Representing lumber, the District 7 stylists decided to go with paper outfits, which they managed to not mess up too badly. Not flashy enough for the sponsors, though. The outfits for District 12 are just confusing. They're just black. Are they supposed to be lumps of coal?

And then I get a look at District 1, and can't help but snicker a little bit.

The girl has on the silliest costume I've ever seen. She has a pink feather headdress that sticks up in all directions and encases practically her whole head. Her dress is hot pink and sparkly, and it falls all the way to her feet. Her shoulders are drowned in a feathery substance that looks plain stupid. Who thought that was a good idea? The male tribute looks just as ridiculous in a pink feather cape.

I nudge Cato, to see if he finds this as ludicrous as I do. He turns and looks at me, blue eyes blank. But as soon as I subtly point out District 1 to him, they fill with humor. I smile slightly to myself, satisfied. Then I drop it. This isn't the place.

Our stylists and mentors give us a final wish of luck, and suddenly our chariot is moving forward. I can see District 1 ahead of us, waving at the crowd that has begun to make noise at the sight of tributes. But then we pull out into sight, and the noise for District 1 is nothing compared to the reaction Cato and I get from the Capitol people. They scream and cheer, pointing at us all the while.

I am encouraged by the crowd, and hold my fist up in triumph. All the while my face is soft as stone. Cato raises his hand and reaches out across the air in front of him, palm downward.

And then there is something wrong. Pascha is correct, everyone's looking at me, loving me and cheering me on, yelling for me. But I can see their eyes and I don't feel powerful, strong, or proud like I should. I certainly don't feel inclined to flaunt myself. For a second this is not an honor. I am a slab of meat to be cooked and eaten. I am a dog thrown through a chain-link fence to bite others like me while people bet on my death. I'm a time bomb ticking, exploding for the entertainment of these people. I am a stone being stepped on by fancy Capitol shoes. Wearing away to rubble.

Just as my mouth peels open, my breath grows ragged and rushed, and I begin to let my fist drop, there's a distraction. It's something behind me. No one looks at me or Cato anymore. I don't even need to whip my head around to see for myself what it is. It's already being projected onto every screen in sight.

There they are, the tributes of District 12, all ablaze and glowing. They are lit on fire. I wonder briefly if they're going to die, but they haven't yet, so I assume that the flame is fake. It must be the part of their costumes that seemed to be missing when I watched them before the Parade.

Cato's jaw sets. I can see that he's bothered. His thunder has been stolen.

President Snow's speech goes by in a blur, and the chariots pull back into enclosed space. I hop out and barely have time to straighten my helmet before Aoife is upon us. "You were fabulous," she says. "Wonderful. They loved you!"

Ire and Creon arrive too. "That was excellent," Ire commends us.

"Nice job." Creon pauses before adding gruffly, "don't be afraid of District 12 just because their stylists had one good idea."

Cato scoffs and Creon smirks. "But," Ire cautions, "don't write anyone off." Her warning is piercing in her muddy green eyes. As if inspired by this, Cato finds District 12 and is quickest to catch the girl's eye. The corner of his mouth turns upward. He stares like that for awhile. I look too, but I don't think the 12 girl notices me. She is bewildered by Cato's stare. Her escort ushers her away, and she's gone.

It's just then that Pascha and his partner reach us. "You both looked incredible, definitely made an impression," he compliments.

"It's time to go, you two," Aoife ushers us away from our stylists as quickly as they had arrived. She pushes us into the Training Center huffily, as always. I look back over my shoulder at Pascha and mouth my thanks to him. He has done me a favor.

Aoife corrals us into the elevator and presses the button for our floor. We ascend in silence.

I hurry to my bedroom to change. Looking through the extremely large closet, the most normal thing I can find is a lacy blue shirt, which is unbearable. But I put it on anyway, and find a gray jacket to cover it. I slip into black pants as well. I don't bother to wash my face before dinner.

When I emerge, the mentors and Aoife are already seated at the table. There's an extravagant feast prepared for us. But I suppose that every meal is a feast in the Capitol. I sit down next to Ire.

Then Cato appears, and takes his seat across from me. Everyone begins to eat.

I look at Cato, who's changed out of his costume too. Undoubtedly, he is strong and deadly and dangerous. But I watch him stare at the wall behind me, blue eyes fixed on an empty canvas perfect for his focused thoughts, the planes of his face set in their ways. And despite everything else, I can only think _beautiful beautiful beautiful_. Which makes me very upset, and I feel wrong. I try not to look at him anymore after that.

Eventually I withdraw into my bedroom. Cato is interrupting my perception. And it's something that I just can't afford.

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><p>AN: So, that's it for that chapter. Did you like it? Hate it? Let me know in a very special and awesome **REVIEW**! Thanks so much for reading, you guys. It really means a lot. The next chapter's going to be interesting, and definitely a bit different. I'm so excited for you guys to read it! Anyway, thanks again.


	4. The Left Side

A/N: **PLEASE READ, VERY IMPORTANT. **You might have noticed that I haven't updated in awhile, which is unfair of me, but I will explain. So, I haven't really been getting much a response for this story at all, and even though I really like it and I think it has a lot of potential, I'm thinking about discontinuing it. I'm really just getting no response to it, negative or positive. I worked really hard on the last chapter and put everything into it, and came away with just one review. So I'm asking you guys to please let me know if you think this fic is worth continuing. You can do this in a review or a private message, either is good. If you review, it doesn't even have to be about this chapter, it can just be the story in general, and if you think I should or shouldn't give up on it. Thanks you guys, just please let me know.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.

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><p>After escaping into my room, I rip off my gray jacket and blue blouse. They make me extremely uncomfortable. I fumble around in the huge closet before I find a drawer that contains clothes for sleeping.<p>

Of course, none of them are acceptable. Everything is tainted by the Capitol, complete with frills and ribbons and feathers and sparkles. The things they think are just exquisite. But this time I don't care as much, because no one will see me in these clothes. So, I quickly change into a nightgown colored the same cream as the rocks in the grass around my house, and get into bed.

Tomorrow, we go into the Training Center to actually train. Finally I'll slip into a sort of comfort zone for the first time since leaving District 2. I shift around in my bed, trying to find the position that's easiest on my arms. I'll really need them tomorrow. But then I find it, and I still can't sleep.

I realize that this is probably because of the dumb dress. At least on the train, they had pants for me to wear to sleep. I contemplate taking off the dress and wearing nothing, but that could have bad repercussions if someone else were to wake me up. It's unlikely that that'll be the case, but the idea is just not sitting well in my head. So there's only one option left.

I push myself to the side of the large bed and swing my legs off. With a small breath in, I stand up, and walk out of the room. It's late now, and everything is dark. But I can feel my feet transfer form carpet to wood, and I know I'm not in my bedroom anymore. So I take the path that my mind is mapping out, imagining this place in the daylight.

I reach his door and hesitate. He's most likely sleeping. Or doing something important like strategizing. And he'll undoubtedly think I'm odd, but his potential opinion of me doesn't faze me as much as my own discomfort at interrupting him. But despite this, I knock anyway.

I hear shuffling, and a pause. Something clicks, and a faint light creeps under the gap at the bottom of his door. And then the door is open, and I can just make out Cato's face in the light of his bed lamp.

I do register that he's not wearing a shirt, but all my life I've been trained to focus, and it comes in handy now. I won't give him the satisfaction of thinking that I care, that I'm a little _girl_, actually influenced by the appeal of bodies. Although his distinct abdomen muscles are threatening to invade my vision, I keep a straight face. I just look at the bridge of his nose instead.

He clears his throat, and I remember that it's time to speak. "Can I borrow a shirt?" I ask Cato.

It's just then that he notices what I'm wearing. He blinks, and the left side of his mouth quirks upward just slightly. "Sure thing, nightgown," Cato says. His voice comes out in a low rumble because he hasn't used it in a couple of hours.

My brows furrow, but I ignore the comment otherwise. Cato turns around and walks to the foot of his bed. He picks up a shirt from the ground and brings it back to me. When he hands it to me, he tells me "I'm not using it anymore," and I resist the urge to say that I know. "That all?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes."

His chin turns upward just so. "Well then," he rumbles, voice still working off sleep. "Sleep well, nightgown." Cato closes the door before I can protest the nickname.

With Cato's shirt in hand, I feel my way back to my room and lie myself gently down on the bed. My head hits the pillows and I sigh a little bit. Did I just get nicknamed after a Capitol garment? By Cato, nonetheless. Great. But I decide that if I want to get any sleep tonight, I'll put it out of my head.

I sit up and slip the nightgown off of my body. Then I toss it aside and slip Cato's shirt over my head. It's still just the tiniest bit warm. When I planned to ask him for a shirt, I hadn't expected him to give me one that he'd already worn, but I'd take what I could get. The rusty brown shirt was enormous on my little body, which was perfect.

I relax back into the bed, feeling a lot more settled now. It feels comfortable and nerve-wracking at the same time. I feel so much better, but there's also that pit of anxiety and disappointment in the middle of my stomach, because I think I might be starting to grow used to Cato. Not enough to call him friend, but enough to place some trust in him. And although I sense that I can trust him, he still confuses and surprises me, which is just more troubling. I should have him figured out by now if I'm going up against him in the Arena. And all for what? Nothing, in the end. Nothing is for anything, because one day everything will stop.

I ball the fabric up in my hand and begin to drift into unconsciousness. Tomorrow will be strategy, exertion, training, direction. So I let the black into my eyes.

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><p>AN: This chapter was a little bit mroe of a filler chapter, just a few ideas that I couldn't refuse. I know it's not my greatest work, but I'm hopefully just geting back into this if my readers want that from me. Again, please **review**, tell me what you think about this. I would appreciate it so, so much.


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